Winner

Ashley Alvarado

My spine is starting to dig into the back of the worn steel chair, causing me to shift. I assumed that nobody would be here this early, but - unfortunately for me - I was wrong. The line to get into the gym had stretched all the way past the pool deck, and when I finally did make it to the front, I was rewarded by being told to take a seat and wait some more. 

"Next." 

I look up from my phone and see a lady in blue scrubs beckoning me forward. She leads me through a labyrinth of stations, until we reach one where a young man waits with a smile. I sit down and survey all the equipment laid out on the table. There's band-aids and cotton balls, a bottle of rubbing alcohol and an oval-shaped fingerstick. He opens a folder containing a form I filled out when I checked in and starts reading off my information. 

"Thanks for donating today, Ashley. We just have to take a small sample and then you can head over to the main floor." 

"Alright," I say, and hold out my hand. 

He grabs the fingerstick and warns, "This might sting a little." 

It does, but I manage to keep a straight face. A tiny globule of blood ebbs out of me, so small that he is unable to gather enough onto the test strip that he clumsily pulls from his belt. 

"I'm sorry. We'll have to do it again." 

He pricks the same finger on my other hand and passionately squeezes the digit like a depleted tube of toothpaste. After failing to coax enough blood from the wound, he grabs the attention of his superior, who gently massages my finger while he holds the test strip. 

"There we go." He holds up the sample. "Sorry about that." 

I shake my head. "Don't be. This keeps me out of class." 

He laughs and begins to guide me towards the main floor. "We certainly don't want that. Go ahead and take a seat on an open gurney -" 

"Excuse me." 

I turn around and see a tall, heavyset man standing before me, sporting the same scrubs as the other workers. He has a thick mustache that is the same shade of gray as the hair on his head.

He grabs my shoulder, gently, directing me towards a table in the corner of the gymnasium. "How much do you weigh?" 

I don't know, actually. I haven't weighed myself in weeks. 

"Um, I'm not sure. One-fifteen, I think." 

He pulls out a scale from a large duffel bag and lays it at my feet. "We're going to have to make sure." 

I stare at the device, unmoving, and then glance around the crowded room. He might as well have asked me to strip. 

He takes note of my trepidation and motions for me to step forward. "Come on. It'll be real quick." 

I do as he says, my feet feeling like cinder blocks. I hear the machine beep three times, calibrating. In the moments before the number appears, I wonder what I’m more afraid of; that it will be too low, or that, after everything that I've done, it will still be too high. 

"Just what I thought. Too light." 

The digits are bright red. Much too light. 

"We can't let you donate, miss. It wouldn't be safe." 

I nod, unsure of how to respond. "Oh." 

The older man shakes his head. "Wouldn't want you passing out or anything. You're free to grab some cookies and juice on your way back to class, if you would like." 

Oddly enough, I don't have much of an appetite. "Thanks." 

I hurry towards the exit before he can say anything else, unable to stand the feeling of his eyes boring into me. There's a lump in my throat that I can't seem to swallow, and once I’m outside, I sit down on a nearby bench, waiting for it to go away. 

When it finally does, I decide that I should head to class. I would rather sit at a desk and do something productive than sit here and contemplate what just occurred for the rest of the period. The walk to the C building feels unusually long. I keep thinking about the number on the scale, red and bright like the lights on an ambulance.

I open the door to Mr. Smith's room as quietly as possible and slide into my seat, keeping my head down. The irrational fear that my classmates have somehow caught wind of what just occurred is making me uneasy. 

The veteran teacher undermines my efforts to fly under the radar by greeting me ceremoniously. “Ms. Alvarado! Were you over at the blood drive?” 

I rub at the back of my neck, wishing that everyone would stop looking at me. “No. My ride was just running late.” 

* * * 

At six years old, my mouth is a black hole. My mother - a large, beautiful woman - keeps shoveling spoonfuls of whatever junk we have in the kitchen into the furnace that is my stomach, desperate to go an evening without me pestering her for more than what I've been given. 

Somehow, I am still skin and bones. The school nurse even calls me into his office at one point. He doesn’t tell me why I’ve been summoned, and I lack the awareness to ask. I sit on the leather bench in the corner of the room, docile, as he wraps a band around my arm with delicate hands. After a few seconds, he removes it, writes something down on his clipboard, and leaves the room. 

I look towards the girl next to me, unsure of what to do while I wait for his return. She is much bigger than I. She does not look back at me. 

That same morning, someone calls my mother to ask her about my eating habits. She says that she feeds me more than enough; that she doesn’t know what else she is supposed to do at this point. The person who called must hear the genuinity in her voice, because I am not called into the health office again. 

When I arrive home that afternoon, my mother asks if I want a snack before dinner. I request Cinnamon Toast Crunch - the most sugary, delectable cereal in our cabinet. My mother prepares me a bowl without a word, while I wait at the dining table and watch my brother play Paper Mario on the cubicle television in our living room. 

When she is finished, she slides the bowl of cereal across the table like a bounty. I eat every last golden square, thankful, and loudly slurp up the sweetened whole milk when I’m done. I even lick the spoon clean, unwilling to let even a single drop of ambrosia go to waste. I could eat another bowl, or two, or three. But I know that my mother’s generosity is not to be tested, so I hand my dish to her to be washed and join my brother on the couch, my mind already drifting towards thoughts of dinner.

* * * 

I don't know when it began. 

Maybe it was when I realized that the recommended serving of peanut butter was only two tablespoons - much less than the amount that I usually slathered on my sandwiches. Maybe it was when my swim coach, in between bites of low-calorie pasta, told me to eat my eggs without the yolks. Maybe it was when one of my water polo teammates shoved a yearbook in my face and said that my arms looked “carved,” like those of Michelangelo’s David, and I realized that my body could be a work of art, if I only treated it that way. 

But perhaps it began even before that. Maybe it began when a sedulous swimmer found a coveted egg and voilà - my mother was having a girl. Maybe it began when some man in the 1900s decided that lithe women were preferable to the Venus that Botticelli presented to the world thousands of years prior. Maybe it began when Eve bit into that goddamned apple and cursed her daughters to second-class citizenship for eons to come. 

But she was hungry, so who can really blame her. 

I don't know when it began. But I do know when I decided that it had to end.

* * * 

One day, about two weeks after the blood drive, Mr. Smith leans over my desk and whispers, “Ms. Jackson wants to see you in her office.”

I draw my eyebrows together. “What about my quiz?” 

“Don't worry about it,” he says, waving his hand. He offers me a tight smile. “You can finish it at lunch.” 

I assume that the counselor wants to speak to me about some scholarship that I'm eligible for - I've been getting called into her office about those a lot lately - and teeter over to the administrative wing. 

I like Ms. Jackson; she's nice enough, and she doesn't poke her nose into her students’ business like the other counselors do. She knows that I'm self-sufficient enough to balance schoolwork and aquatics without losing my mind, so she doesn't waste my time by calling me into her office to discuss silly things like stress management and self-care. 

We engage in the usual pleasantries. She asks me how I'm doing, I ask how she's doing. I mention that I'm starting to apply to colleges, and she advises me to set up a profile on the NCAA recruitment website. I have no intention of playing sports at the collegiate level, but I thank her and say that I'll put it on my to-do list. She happily tells me that she's been writing a book, but when I express a desire to read it someday, she realizes that she has revealed too much and attempts to reassert the firm boundary that exists between us. 

“Well, it's not anything you would be interested in,” she says, which is probably true. Still, I am bothered by the reminder that as mature as I may be, I am still a child in her eyes. Suddenly, she leans forward and says, “The reason why I've called you in here today is because some of your teachers have expressed to me that they're worried about you.” 

My body seems to sense what is to come before my brain can put the pieces together. My chest tightens, the same way it does when I am waiting on the diving block before the start of a race that I am surely going to lose. My hands clutch at the woven arms of my chair. The rhythmic ticking of the clock above the door fills the room. 

"They're concerned that you haven't been eating." 

I have always been very articulate, even as a child. I may not say much, but when I do, I make sure that I don’t sound like a complete idiot. But when I register what is happening, the best I can do is give voice to my disbelief. 

"Oh my god," I mumble. 

She stands up then, quickly, and closes the door. I realize that I now have two options; to spill my guts and sift through them with a licensed professional, or to lie just one more time. 

And I, for better or worse, decide that I am not ready to pick apart the hideous logic that I have been using to justify my perpetual emptiness and pick the latter. 

I relay the usual story: that I attended a month-long residential program at USC over the summer and started going on runs with my roommate, a track and field star from the East Coast. It’s partially true. My roommate really was a track and field star, but her specialty was the javelin throw, and she spent the entirety of the program partying with the other pupils while I stayed in our room, doing push-ups and sit-ups and the kind of calculus that has killed so many young women. 

She seems relieved when I am done speaking, maybe even more than I am. She lets out a breath and says, “Oh, thank god. Your teachers were so worried about you.” 

“No, no,” I say, forcing myself to smile. My hand drifts to my stomach. “They have nothing to worry about.” 

She motions towards the door and says that I am free to head back to class, and I thank her for taking the time to talk to me. I don’t mean it, at least not at the time, but it seems like the best thing to say to convince her that this has all been a big misunderstanding. I take a moment in the hallway to pull out my phone and text my dad.

Can you pick me up a burrito from Rosa Maria’s for dinner? I’m starving. 

* * * 

I don’t give much thought to who clued Ms. Jackson in on my rapid shrinkage. I’m too focused on getting my weight up before they - whoever they are - feel the need to take more drastic measures to save me from myself. The last thing I want is to end up in some recovery facility with a bunch of strangers. There would be no way to hide such an excursion; everyone would know that I’ve lost my mind. 

I spend weeks teaching myself how to eat again, even when I am not hungry, and even when the thought of eating fills me with dread. My dad is thrilled about this; he can recall all the times that he asked me to go out to eat with him, only for me to tell him I wasn’t hungry and retreat to my room to do homework. Now, I’m the one asking him if we can go get milkshakes, burgers, tacos - all the things that I have forgotten the taste of. 

In the weeks leading up to winter break, my academic decathlon coach takes some time off to mourn the death of her father. Mr. Smith takes it upon himself to check in with the team and make sure we aren’t slacking off during her absence. He asks to speak with me in the hallway one morning, and I shuffle outside to meet him. 

“So, how are the decathletes doing?” He cracks a smile. I don’t think he knows how to be serious. “Are you guys ready for the competition?” 

I should have said, “Yeah, we’re all working really hard. We want to be ready when Mrs. Awad gets back.” But I guess I’ve exhausted my lying capabilities for the year, because instead I tell him, “I don’t think some of the other seniors are; they spend the whole period talking to each other instead of doing their work.” 

It’s a bitch move, throwing them under the bus. Even Mr. Smith seems surprised by my candor and lets out a small chuckle. “Well, I guess I’ll have to have a talk with the team later.” 

I nod and am about to head back inside the classroom when he says, “Hey, I’m - I’m sorry about what happened with Ms. Jackson.” 

I freeze. Of course, I think to myself. Of course. 

He shakes his head. “You know, I - I was meeting with Ms. Shaw and Mrs. Awad at the beginning of the school year and - I can’t remember who, but one of us brought you up, and we all kinda looked at each other like, ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ So Ms. Shaw sent an email to Ms. Jackson, so that she could - so that she could check up on you.” He laughs then, as though he has thought of something funny. “You know, my wife and I hosted an exchange student from Norway at our house maybe ten years ago. She was just like you. A straight-A student, incredible athlete. Everyone loved her.” 

He pauses to purse his lips before breaking out in his usual smile, though I notice that there’s a tensity to his gaze. He clears his throat and continues, “But she would never eat what we would make for dinner. She would have a few bites, maybe, but then she would say that she was tired from cross-country and head up to her room. I went in there one day, just to take the bag out of the little trash can we put up there for her, and I noticed that what looked like apple seeds were in there. She had eaten everything else - most people would toss an apple once they get to the core, but she - she ate the core. I think we all just thought that something similar might be happening with you because you - well, you’re the perfect candidate.” 

I can only stare at him. I can’t speak, because my voice would surely tremble, and then he would know; he would know that I am just like that Norwegian girl whom he cared for all those years ago. That somewhere along the way, in an effort to become the image of discipline, I stumbled and slipped into a fruitless cycle of refrain, refrain, refrain, and I am only just beginning to pull myself out of it. 

Thankfully, he does not expect an answer. He offers me a tight smile before opening the door to the classroom, and I step back inside. 

* * * 

At seventeen years old, I am learning what it means to be full. 

I reach up to open the cabinet above the stove and grab the lonely box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. I plucked it off the shelf the last time I went grocery shopping with my father. I slide my fingers under the cardboard flap on the top of the box and pull, and then force open the plastic bag inside. It takes a surprising amount of strength, but my reward is immediate. The smell of cinnamon and sugar washes over me, and I feel the smallest of twinges in my chest. I grab some almond milk from the fridge - we stopped buying whole milk years ago - and combine my ingredients in a ceramic bowl. 

There is a ravenous part of me that wants to plunge my face in the bowl and devour its contents like a feral beast. But I force myself to take my time. I hold each bite in my mouth, allowing the cinnamon and sugar to dissolve on my tongue before chewing. The only cereal I’ve allowed myself to eat in the last six months is Wheaties, so I feel like a caveman who has taken their first sip of Pepsi. I grab a banana from the fruit bowl and cut it into even slices that I add to my cereal, as if it isn’t already sweet enough. 

My brother is playing Alien: Isolation in the living room. The screams of the space crew and hissing of the monster hunting them down blend together with the sound of cereal crunching between my teeth. When there are no more pieces left, I tilt the bowl back and drink the milk

that remains. Then, I put my dish in the sink and take a seat on the couch beside my brother. He pays me no mind as he taps away at the buttons on his Xbox controller, oblivious. 

I don’t know if what I feel is fullness. I think it may just be freedom.